


Armistead

by Nightlark



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: F/M, Fake AH Crew, GTA V AU, M/M, Multi, Not Really A Happy Ending, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-14 18:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5753296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightlark/pseuds/Nightlark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere along the way, Ray Narvaez Jr. found himself at the end of a subway tunnel staring out at the light of the world that awaited him above the rungs of a single, rickety ladder, and for the first time in his life felt very, very alone.</p><p>(Roughly based on AH's Heist video series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End of All Things (Reprise)

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo, this is going to be a pretty slow burn project for me due to my other commitments, but I do plan on completing this in its entirety. I foresee a path of great angst and much death... I'd love to have you guys along for the ride! 
> 
> (BTW, I'm looking for someone to bounce ideas off of in times of stagnation and/or proofread, so hmu if you're interested.)

"Well. Nice of you to show up." It's cold, and the winter air bites at Ray's fingers where they're wrapped around the grip of a .50 caliber pistol. The man he's pointing the weapon at shrugs with hands stuck deep in the pocket of his sweatshirt, a seemingly nonchalant motion that doesn't really hide the tension in his shoulders or the unease in his stance. He reaches up to ruffle his chestnut curls and adjust his glasses, avoiding Ray's gaze.

"Didn't think I'd run into you here," he mumbles, a hint of a Jersey accent clipping his words.

"I could say the same for you." There's steel behind his remark and Ray's struggling to keep his voice steady.

The other man shrugs again, and steps closer, pulling out a small bouquet he's somehow crammed into the pocket of the sweatshirt and holding it in front of him for Ray to see. "Here to pay my respects." He nods in the direction behind Ray, over to the freshly swept headstone. "D'you mind?"

Seeing Michael again after what happened all those years ago strikes a nerve and Ray decides he's not in the mood to play games. "What do you want, Michael?"

"Like I said, just here to visit-"

"Don't pull that crap on me. You know as well as I do that you haven't showed your goddamn face here once in the last three years so excuse me if I don't find this to be kind of a fucking surprise."

"I want to talk," Michael says, voice tense.

"Bullshit."

"Look, Ray, hear me out," Michael says, moving forward even as Ray steps back, keeping him out of arm's length of the pistol.

"See, it's funny you say that," Ray grits out, "Because I think I can remember _great_  time when we could've had this talk, you know, back when we weren't standing  _six feet on top of half the goddamn crew_."

Michael shakes his head, agitated. "Fuck, Ray, do you really want to do this here? Is that really appropri-"

"Don't you dare," Ray snarls, "Don't you fucking dare, You know damn well who put them there-"

"That was your fault, too."

The gun quivers slightly in his grasp, which Ray absolutely blames on the cold and not on the stab of pain that shoots through his chest at those words, because they aren't  _true , _none of it was his fault - he's spent an entire four years convincing himself of that fact, and he refuses to let his confidence in it be shaken by  _Michael_ of all people.

Michael, with whom he'd once been as close to as a brother, with whom he'd charged into open firefights and leaped out of helicopters with no hesitation, with whom he'd shared bruises and bullet holes and a fair number of explosions and escaped all the richer for it. Michael, whom he'd trusted with his life and whom he'd have died for at a second's notice.

But that was then, three years, two cities, and a heist ago, before things spiraled out of control in a blaze of gunfire and confusion and here they were now, two battered souls with whispers of the dead haunting their memories.

Anyone else would've called it fate, but Ray knows full well what it really was, what they were all chasing after. He would've taken a moment to appreciate the irony of it all - how the very thing that had brought them together as brothers pulled them apart, how the very bonds that held them tight destroyed them, how every part of their chaotic demise just fell so neatly into place in a series of little accidents and happy uncertainties that their carefully laid plans could never achieve - he really would've liked to take the moment to appreciate the goddamn irony of the situation if he weren't pointing a .50 at a ghost from his past.

Because really, for all that Geoff, with his swagger and confidence, fancied himself to be boss of the Fakes, there was really only one lord to begin with.


	2. Rome is Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Augete vitreum amicis Romam cadit. Nova aetas affulget, et cadunt_ but it is not the fall that kills you, it is the landing, darling.

"We're heading for the chopper, we've got the money!" cries Gavin with a triumphant whoop. 

Geoff's voice cuts through on the comms, underscored by the roar of a car engine and the whoosh of the wind. "Go, go, go, fly your asses over to the bikes NOW, Ray's got them ready for the next hit."

In response, he receives high-pitched yelp from the young Brit, followed by the sound of a muffled explosion and a distant scream of "GODDAMMIT GAVIN WHY" from Michael. Geoff sighs and turns to Ryan, who's fixated on the road, swerving around pitiable nine-to-five commuters as they barrel down the highway toward Los Santos proper. In the name of inconspicuity, they're in an atrociously painted orange Stanier that doesn't handle nearly as well as the luxury beasts they prefer. In his peripheral vision, he catches the sight of a helicopter swooping by overhead as it very barely clears an overpass and avoids clipping a lamppost. Geoff shakes his head with all the exasperation of an annoyed parent and buries his face in his hands.

"God fucking damn it. I swear to god, one of these days I'm going to keel the fuck over from a fucking heart attack because of these idiots."

"Well, you were the one who decided to put Gavin on helicopter duty," Ryan comments.

"Fuck you, Ryan."

"I'm just saying."

A burst of static cuts off Geoff's retort and Ray's voice is in their ears. "Hey, where are you guys right now?" Ray asks, nonchalant. 

"Oh man, we're a long way out," Jack says over the whoop-whoop-whoop of helicopter blades. "How are the bikes?"

"Ah, well. We're just chillin' right now. Chillin' like villains, or, you know, armed robbers," replies Ray. "Man, you guys are slow."

"How the fuck is that our fault," scoffs Michael. "Ryan, why did we choose a meeting spot light years away from the - FUCKING HELL GAVIN STOP TRYING TO HIT THE STREETLIGHTS THEY’RE NOT FUCKING GOALPOSTS -"

"I'm not TRYING to hit them, Michael, they're just there -" 

"Uh, guys," says Jack. "We have a-"

The sudden blast of police sirens drowns them out. Ryan glances sharply in the rear view mirror and is met with the sight of blaring lights and black vans that are parting a sea of civilian vehicles as the police force bulldozes their way towards them. 

“-problem”, Jack finishes, amidst a string of incoherent shouting behind her. 

“Jack, are they after you as well?” Ryan asks.

“Uh, maybe? Let me get back to you on that.”

“Jesus Christ, where the fuck did these assholes come from?" exclaims Geoff as Ryan slams the car into a wide turn, barely avoiding being rammed by a tanker as he cuts across four lanes of traffic and speeds off the nearest exit ramp with two cruisers hot on their tail and a SWAT squad not far behind.

"What's going on? Do you need me to save your asses?"

"No, no, Ray, keep your eye out for cops and get ready to bail, we're coming your way," replies Geoff. "Jack, how are you guys doin' up there?"

"-here, Gavin, switch with me, take the guns, uh, yeah there's only two of them on us right now, we'll try to outrun them." Jack's voice is slightly strained, but her words are punctuated by the rat-ta-tat-tat of a machine gun firing and Michael's whoop of triumph, which Geoff takes to be a good sign for the time being. "We'll try to land somewhere on the Hills and make our way down to a safehouse."

"Alright, sounds good. Ray, we'll keep you posted, we got a few coppers on our tail and the rest might be lookin' for you, so be ready."

"I'm ready to go, just let me know when you guys are close."

"How did they get onto us so quickly?" Ryan asks. "This is only the first hit. Did we let a witness through?" 

Geoff sighs. "I don't know, okay, I don't fucking know, let's just get Ray and get outta here first."

They move, weaving and shooting as they carve a path of destruction through the city and fill the Los Santos evening with screeching tires, gunshots, and shouting. Up above, helicopters thrum by, chasing after the crew and the money with searchlights and guns blazing. By the time Geoff and Ryan pull up to the alley Ray's been waiting at, they're being tailed by a full contingent of SWAT vans and several more squad cars. Ray snipes the driver of a police van that's getting much too close for comfort and dives through the open backseat door offered to him just as Ryan swings their shitty getaway car by the sidewalk, slowing down enough for Ray to make the jump before turning sharply and speeding into the narrow lane between a gas station and a pawn shop.

"What the fuck, what happened, what went wrong," breathes Ray, trying to right himself from his ungainly sprawl across the back seat and Geoff's lap.

"Shit hit the fan, someone called the police," says Geoff, handing him a pistol. Ray takes it and slouches down in his seat as he checks the weapon with urgency. 

"How is that possible? Did you guys leave any witnesses?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it was just bad luck, " Ryan replies, although he doesn't sound convinced. They're too good, seen and performed too many heists to let something like this slide. A witness unaccounted for is sloppy, too convenient of an explanation, and they all know better than to place their faith in chance. 

“Well, fuck, alright, so everything else tonight is scratched, right?” Ray asks as he rolls down his window and checks behind them for cops. 

“No more hits until we figure out what went wrong,” confirms Geoff. An unspoken question dangles before them. No one gives it a voice or an answer, and it sits in their mind, grating against their conscience. They make their way through a web of backstreets and find themselves somewhat successful in frustrating their pursuers. The police are in greater disarray when they emerge, having split to try and cover their points of exit. Geoff and Ray shoot up the two squad cars close enough to spot them as they emerge and it buys a brief head start as the rest of the force scrambles to pick up their trail again. Luck and a few well-placed explosives loses the last of the cops on their tail and gets them back safely on the highway. Ryan drives at reckless speeds as they make their way to a safehouse several miles outside of the city, a dusty old two-story sitting on an empty lot near an old airstrip in the chaparral. The minute they stop, Geoff pushes out of the car and starts making calls, scrolling angrily through his contacts.

“Well, that was fun, I guess, but let’s not do that again any time soon,” yawns Ray, stretching as he steps out the battered vehicle. Ryan shoots him a bemused glance as he fiddles with the lock on the door of the house. 

“Hey, uh, Ray,” Geoff says, looking up from his phone. “You mind torching the car? Ryan and I can unload the stuff into the house while we wait for the others.”

“Yeah, sure. The jerry can is in the trunk, right?”

“Should be.”

“Alright, then I’m outta here. See you guys in a few.”

“Keep an eye out while you’re out there,” Ryan adds. “Make sure you don’t have anyone tailing you on the way back.”

“Ah, don’t worry about me,” Ray says with a nonchalant wave as he starts up the car, the engine sputtering to life. “I’ll be fine. See you guys later. I’ll call if I’m not back by the hour.” He pulls out of the lot and disappears up the mountain road. 

Ryan gets the door open and the two make their way inside. Geoff dumps the depleted bag of ammunition on a sagging couch and produces a bottle of whiskey from the depths of a dusty cabinet as he tears into someone he’s talking with on the phone - a freelancer they’d contracted, an arms supplier, an informant - Ryan doesn’t know who, and he isn’t interested in finding out. He sits down on the couch and begins a systematic assessment, cleaning his guns and taking inventory. He doesn’t take off his mask. He doesn’t stop listening for sirens or helicopters. The LSPD are probably still chasing after their scent, and Ryan isn’t sure that they’ve lost it yet. Caution has yet to fail him, and the Vagabond’s not about to abandon it anytime soon. He heads outside again and takes a seat in the chair on the front porch, eyes trained on the horizon for any sign of trouble. Far away from the rush of the highway and the pulse of the city, the desert night is silent. A gentle breeze rustles the brush and sends the loose gravel of the lot tumbling about lazily. It’s almost peaceful, he thinks. Almost.

Geoff joins him a little while later. Ryan looks up, notes the anger in his eyes, the white-knuckled grip on his glass and the steely set of his jaw. “What’s the news?” Ryan asks with concern.

“It was fucking Kerry,” Geoff snarls, raising the whiskey to his lips. “The cops started wondering how a lowly little call center tech could suddenly afford a goddamn Ferrari and he couldn’t take the heat.” He scoffs into his drink and takes a swill. 

Ryan raises an eyebrow behind his mask. “Did they take him in?”

“He got a deal with them. Police protection and all that crap, that son of a bitch. That’s one part of this grand mystery solved.” Geoff sighs, and squints into the darkness. One part of the mystery. Before Ryan can say anything, Geoff points at a pair of approaching headlights and asks, “Who’s that?”

Ryan rises and reaches for his gun. Quickly, he scans for any sign of additional vehicles, and allows himself to relax when he sees none. The two motorbikes get closer, revealing their riders - Michael, Ray, and a visibly distressed Gavin supporting the weight of Jack, who’s slumped over in her seat behind him. In the bright glare of the headlights, the dark spot of red high on Jack’s breast looks like the abstract bloom of an ink blot test, contrasting sharply with the pastel green of her Hawaiian print shirt. 

“Oh no no no no no,” exhales Geoff, abandoning the last of his drink and crossing the porch steps in quick strides to meet the rest of the crew as they pull up by the house. Ryan’s only a step behind, hurrying to help Michael carry Jack off the bike. Gavin flits around, talking rapidly in words strung together and made incoherent by nerves. 

Michael mutters a frantic stream of encouragement and reassurance alike as they make their way up to the porch. “Fuck, Jack, Jack, listen to me, hang in there, we’re here, we’re here - ” 

“Here, get her on the couch, I have the medkit.”

“I swear to god, whichever asshole did this -”

“We were just flying and we thought we lost the choppers and then there was this shot - “

“- shit, where did the disinfectant go?”

“Michael, there’s alcohol in the cabinets -”

“And then we found Ray and all that but she was already out by then -”

“Geez, that’s rough.”

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.”

Ryan does a decent enough job of stemming the blood loss to stabilize Jack for the time. Geoff makes a hasty call out, and Lindsay answers - yes, she knows a private surgeon, no, he won’t talk, he’s clean, she’ll send him out there as soon as possible. The crew hauls in the rest of the equipment and worries in their own ways. Michael paces, stops every so often to look at where Jack lays palely on the sunken couch and shake his head agitatedly. Gavin is perched on a chair opposite Jack and alternates his gaze between her and Michael, fiddling with his rings and the ridiculous gold chain around his neck while chatting quietly with Ray. Geoff hovers, spitting curses at associates and pouring himself another drink even as Ryan fades into the background, silent, brooding, watching, ever vigilant. The night grows older, and the police sirens don’t come. Eventually, the lads tire and drift off one by one to the rooms they’d once claimed in the safehouse. Geoff takes Gavin’s seat as he leaves and sits, head in his hands, making even more of a crow’s nest of his hair more than it already is. 

“Well, shit,” he mutters. “Shit.”


End file.
